


Find Me

by NovaCherryCola



Series: Feysand prompts (tumblr) [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drabble, F/M, Who's to Say, might fuck around and continue this, what can I say except I'm always a slut for high society dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 18:01:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18744214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaCherryCola/pseuds/NovaCherryCola
Summary: Written for the prompt “Darling, you were not made for corsets and courtrooms. You were made for the wilds of this world- for mountaintops and shadowed valleys and all the places others fear. You were made for something so much bigger than all… of this. Let me prove it to you.”In a different land, in a different time, there is no war, no wall. Rhys finds Feyre anyway.





	Find Me

From atop her father’s balcony, Feyre sighs. The ball downstairs rages onward, sons of Lords and eligible bachelorettes flirting and laughing; and music spills from the many open windows below her. Light and shadows dance across lush gardens, and the youngest daughter of The Prince of Merchants watches them with a wary gaze.

The pins in her hair are smooth under her touch, and easily give way as she slides them out of place, her auburn locks whispering across her elaborate mask. The verdant green mixes with the champagne-white candlelight, mirrored in her tight, fancy gown and glamorous jewels. A Dance To Remember, she’d call the piece. Feyre hates it.

“Come here often?” A voice purrs from behind her. Feyre whirls to find a dark figure. One of his hands is tucked neatly into a pocket, the other holding the delicate stem of a wine glass. Hips cocked and smirk plastered nicely to his face, as usual.

“Lord Rhysand.” Feyre greets, shivering as a breeze caresses her skin and stirs up her loose hair.

The Lord laughs, and Feyre shivers for entirely different reasons.

“Just Rhys is fine. It’s what all my friends call me.” He winks, eyes twinkling beneath his midnight blue mask.

Rhys strolls casually toward her, impossibly more graceful than anyone downstairs, and Feyre can feel the air charging with some indefinable tension. He leans against the rail, sips at his drink, and smiles at her.

“So I’m a friend then?” Feyre watches him, her stomach fluttering. “You must trust incredibly easy.”

Again, that laugh.

“Oh no, Feyre darling, you’d be surprised how guarded I can be- but I get a good feeling from you, and I tend to trust my instincts.” He tosses her a conspiratorial grin. It makes Feyre’s fingers itch for her paints: the way the light plays across his face and that bright, beautiful stare. From downstairs, a new song begins- soft and intimate.

“I- I should go. Lords to dance with, engagements to turn down.” Feyre makes to leave, but a hand at her wrist halts her.

Rhys pulls away, glancing over his shoulder, and Feyre is sure it’s the first time she’s ever seen the man uncertain.  
“If you’re sure you want to spend your time playing their games, by all means.” He fixes his gaze on her again, the crooked tilt of his lips back as if it never left.

“And what, exactly, do you have to offer?” She teases, quirking a brow. “Lord Rhysand.”

Rhys steps to her, and Feyre does not back down, not even when she has to tilt her head to look at him, his chest nearly pressed to her own, the music swelling beneath their feet.

“Darling,” He purrs, mask doing nothing to hide him from her, “you were not made for corsets and courtrooms. You were made for the wilds of this world- for mountaintops and shadowed valleys and all the places others fear. You were made for something so much bigger than all… of this. Let me prove it to you.”

He holds out a gloved hand, and, heart beating almost out of her chest, Feyre takes it.

Rhys pulls her towards him, his other hand finding the small of her back, Feyre’s own alighting on the back of his neck. They sway together, closer, closer, until there is barely a breath between them.

“Would you trust me, Feyre darling?” Rhys breathes, trembling.

And as Feyre sees all of him, sees the inhuman-ness of him and the risk and the danger, she nods.

And then the balcony is empty, as if no one had been there at all.


End file.
